


Drabbles on a Theme: Bomb Voyage

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Clothing, Daydreaming, Drabble Collection, Eyepatch, Fluff, Kilts, Kissing, M/M, Nobility, Regicide, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, parricide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short series of unconnected drabbles about Demoman and Spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I cannot wear this, cher," Spy sighed, holding up the woolen garment with a frown.

"And why nae?" Demoman asked, rolling a long sock up his leg. "It should fit, and it's the right tartan. Took a bit o' doin', tracin' what few names ye had tae go on, but that should be yer great-great-gran's clan."

"It is not that." Regarding the kilt with a frown, Spy looked to the rest of his clothes, laid out on the bed. He set the tartan garment down along with them. "This is terribly embarrassing."

With a sigh, Demoman stood, one sock still gathered around his ankle, and wrapped a strong arm around the Frenchman's waist, pulling their bodies in close. "What is it, love? Dinnae tell me yer still sheepish about yer legs. They're nae too thin, and I like the look of 'em besides."

"It is not my legs. Your attention to them last night has me over that particular insecurity."

"Then what?"

"My clothes," Spy began, gesturing to the bed. "I wish you had told me you intended for me to wear plaid while we were here, mon loup. I would have packed solid colours."

Demoman followed his gaze to the bed where the kilt lay, along with a few dress shirts and ties, and several pin-striped jackets and waistcoats, clashing garishly with the pattern of the kilt. "Oh."

"Oui."

The bomber grinned and nosed into the crook of Spy's neck. "Shirtless it is, then." He pressed a kiss to his lover's warm skin, his muttonchops tickling him enough to make him squirm.

"Tavish, no."

"Oh yes."


	2. Chapter 2

"You overdid it again," Spy grumbled, slipping through the door to Demoman's darkened room and closing it behind him. He heard a creaking grumble in reply, and the squeak of bed springs. Likely the bomber rolling over in hopes he would go away.

Not a chance.

"I know you prefer to spend your workday pickled, but this is ridiculous."

"I dinnae need a lecture, Spy."

"You are going to receive one regardless. This is juvenile! Whatever it is about alcohol that you think makes you better at your job, it is killing you!"

"Medic says the respawn keeps me liver just fine.  
"That doesn't matter! Look at yourself! It's four pm, and you are laying in the dark nursing an evening hangover! How exactly is this 'just fine'?"

"Because it has tae be. Now let me sleep this off so I can make it tae dinner."

Spy flicked on the light, making the bomber scramble to shove his head under the pillow with an agonized groan. "Why do you do it? Why do you drink on the field? You should be sharp and aware, not poisoning yourself into a stupor! If you are so good at your job like this, you would be incredible when sober!"

"I'd be a wreck!" Demoman barked from beneath the pillow, his legs tucking up against his body.

"You are a wreck now!"

"Ye dinnae ken! Ye dinnae ken! It's the only way I can get me legs tae move, me arms tae work, me mind tae stop rabbitin' on and remindin' me! Every time I see the blood, the gibs, ye ken what I see? Do ye?"

Spy waited, silent, nostrils flared.

"They were me parents. Before the DeGroots, they were me parents. And I killed 'em. They were _everywhere_. Ye can't even begin tae understand what it's like tae carry that with ye. Every time I personally put a sticky intae the gut o' some BLU, suddenly I'm back there by the loch, and the blood and gore showerin' down on me is me mum and da. Yer parents died in the war, Spy. I murdered mine!"

The sniffling was audible through the pillow, and Demoman choked back his sobs to preserve what little dignity he still maintained.

"Tavish..."

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out!" the bomber roared over the pounding of his head and the burn of his wet eyes, flinging the pillow at the stunned Frenchman.

"Non, Tavish, I did—"

When the bottle of scrumpy he hadn's seen clutched in Demoman's other hand sailed for his face, Spy ducked, scrambling out the door in shock, chased by a sob and a curse.


	3. Chapter 3

How the hell do you make an eyepatch formal?

Demoman frowned at his reflection in the mirror. He'd carefully trimmed his moustache and muttonchops, framing the chestnut brown of his skin in stark, dark black. He wondered how long it would be before the effect was softened by intrusions of silver, and cast an eye up to the tight curls atop his head, cut close on the sides and allowed the barest modicum of elbow room higher up. His family wasn't known for greying early, but the niggling fear had always been there, ever since that wizard took his eye. He'd never known anyone who'd had a brush with the supernatural and not come away with it missing pigment in their hair. It was probably just a matter of time now that he was entering, kicking and screaming, into middle age.

He was a millionaire, owned a mansion, had been working hard his whole life, since he was a boy. He was a master of his craft, and could out-mix some of the most decorated chemists, their degrees amounting to little more than wadding. He held down several jobs at any given time and found time to care for his aging mum all the while. Certainly, he had his vices, but he was successful in every definition of the word.

He was even in a long-term relationship, which was a very grown-up thing to do.

So why did he feel like an overgrown child trying to play dress-up in Da's closet, stepping into his big oversized shoes and shrugging on a jacket that reached his knees and stretch far beyond his arm's reach, a hat for a head larger than his own perched over half of his face?

At his best, he was barely presentable, tall, muscular, and hale as he may be. It was hard to be presentable when the moment somebody looked at you their first thought was looking for the nearest exit. Or jokes about piracy.

The bomber adjusted the strap of his eyepatch, making sure it sat comfortably, staring at it with his remaining eye like an offending thing. It did offend. It marred what would otherwise, even to his own reckoning, be a fine face. Removing it would only make things worse, though. Nobody needed to see what lay behind it.

His eye caught itself in the mirror, staring blankly at itself, the rich, dark golden brown of raw honey burning into itself for a long moment. He could almost be handsome. He could almost be whole. He could almost be—

"Tavish?"

Demoman looked up, Spy's face over his shoulder staring at him in the mirror. He hadn't even realized he'd been gripping the sink, hunched forward, his nose a mere inch from the glass. He noticed a small haze on the mirror where he'd been breathing against it.

Spy's brow was furrowed, his lips turned down into a slight frown. His hair was combed back immaculately, his jaw clean-shaved for a rare change, and he was immaculate in his charcoal-grey tux, the picture of masculine grace. It sent twin pangs to the Scot's heart, one of adoration for this perfect creature who somehow saw fit to share his life with such a wretched mess, and one of jealousy for just how right he looked dressed to the nines like that. How could he even think they were on the same level? They were both obscenely wealthy, but only one looked the part, and it wasn't the man missing an eye.

"Ye should go without me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Spy admonished, closing the distance between himself and his lover. He wrapped his arms around the taller man, smoothing the black tuxedo jacket over his broad shoulders. "I can't go without my date. That would be an ever greater scandal than showing up on the arm of a man." He looked to Demoman's face in the mirror, the warm ocean blue of his eyes full of unbridled adoration. "Besides, how am I to show off my charming lover without him present?"

"Who's this charmin' fellow?"

Spy rolled his eyes. He cleared his throat, and in a perfect imitation of the Scot's voice, replied, "Some bloody numpty what cannae see how fit he is even starin' right at himself."

Demoman chuckled at that.

"Seriously," the rogue continued, dropping the impression, "you are perfect, mon cher. I would not have you by my side if you were anything less. You know how picky I am."

Tearing himself from the mirror, the bomber stole a quick kiss from the Frenchman over his shoulder, a light sigh leaving his throat. "Picky isn't worth shite if ye have bad taste, love."

"I will have you know that I taste _amazing_ ," Spy harrumphed, letting go to smooth down his jacket and straighten his tie with exaggerated motions.

"I cannae disagree there."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is surprisingly beyond my realm of experience," Spy mumbled, leaning into his lover's personal space just enough to be sure no one else would hear.

"Ye think I like this either? Only reason we're doin' this is the DeGroots're still landed. Not like the bloody title matters much anymore when Scotland's not its own country."

"Doesn't it frustrate you, being the rightful heir to a crown that has been usurped and folded into another monarchy?"

Demoman shrugged, the half-cape pinned to his tartan sash swinging a bit with the motion. "Nothin' I can do about it. Besides, do ye really think Scotland would flourish under King Tavish I? I'm a demoman, not a ruler." He looked like he was from another time, kilt and sash and cloak with a dress shirt and suit jacket, a coat of arms emblazoned on his sporran. He wore a ceremonial dirk at his hip, and Spy thought it ironic that he was likely to do more damage with the weapon than the man wearing it, who had groused about never being allowed his claymore at court, even with a peace-bond.

"You could be," Spy purred, smirk audible. Thoughts of taking that blade and cutting his way through the other assembled nobles danced in the rogue's head, a quick and violent coup that would see the Highland prince the only member of the ruling class left. Parliament might be a slightly longer melee, but he was confident that for his Prince Tavish, he could gladly cut a bloody swath through any and everyone who stood in their way.

It was nonsense, of course. Murdering nobility rarely resulted in an actual coup and conquering anymore, but as the rogue watched the other aristocrats chatter and curry favour at the ball, he couldn't help but enjoy the idle fantasy. He was in his element; a man of subtlety and subterfuge, finesse his bread and butter. All the same, growing up French still had its impact. Revolution was in his bones, and Spy couldn't hide the curl of his lip at the thought of overthrowing the ruling class.

Especially if it meant elevating the immaculate man at his side for all to look upon and adore.


	5. Chapter 5

"This shite's like makin' love in a canoe," Demoman grunted, setting down his bottle of beer with a frown.

"Ugh, I know. American beer is largely absolute rubbish. Their meat is bland, their drinks are bland, and it is impossible to find decent breads. This is a country filled with people who despise their tongues," Spy ranted, gesticulating with his own bottle.

"Or fear 'em."

"Mm, possible. Though I will not complain about the sweets here. Those, I can appreciate." Spy set down his drink and looked out over the desert. The setting sun cast purple shadows along the dry, cracked dirt as the horizon exploded in a cavalcade of oranges, yellows, pinks, blues, violets, and reds as the light sank away.

"Aye, I can appreciate the sweets here too," Demoman grinned, tugging Spy over for a kiss. "Ye most of all."

Spy chuckled, returning the gentle kiss and bringing a gloved hand up to pet at the Scot's jaw. "Yes, well, they do make everything better in France."


	6. Chapter 6

"LET'S GET 'EM, BOYOS!" Demoman roared, charging forward with his grenade launcher loaded and ready. They had the opening, the charge was called, and the team sped for the point. There was a sentry nest around the corner, in perfect line of sight to mow them down on their way, and it was the Scot's task to make sure it didn't get the chance. Finger on the trigger, he scanned the area for a good place to ricochet a pipe into the nest when he heard a scream and an explosion.

Skidding into the open, the bomber's eye widened as he saw the nest completely destroyed, and in a blink, the blur of blue and telltale wobbling outline of a spy cloaking. As the Frenchman faded from view, he caught sight of a glove reaching to Spy's lips and then out to him, a blown kiss.

"Sassy little—" Demoman never saw the Sniper's laser dot on the left side of his face.


End file.
